


The Rubble

by blanketed_in_stars



Series: 52 Weeks of Wolfstar [18]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1981, Angst, Betrayal, First War with Voldemort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Marauders' Era, October 31 1981, Post-First War with Voldemort, Post-Hogwarts, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 12:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3895720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus is falling, falling, falling. The grip on his respiratory system has tightened, and he clutches at the soft edge of the bed. Something has gone wrong in his ears—a roaring, rushing, pounding noise like the ocean. He's drowning.</p><p>November 1st, 1981.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rubble

**Author's Note:**

> Week 18

Remus wakes to a loud rapping on his window. Opening his eyes, he sees a fist knocking against the glass. He stares at the ceiling for a moment and looks again—it's still there. "Yes, yes," he groans as another round of banging begins, "what is it?" He stumbles to the window and throws it open in the middle of a knock, receiving a rather strong punch to the jaw.

Leaning out of the window, he peers down three stories and sees that the fist is connected to a man in the street staring up at him. "What?" he yells, perhaps too loudly for the time of day. The morning is still stretching over the town.

The man, who is wearing deep green robes, grins. "I'm buying a pint for every wizard in the county," he calls. "Come celebrate! We're at the Gargoyle in Inverness."

Remus blinks, sleep still muddling his brain. "Celebrate what?"

"You-Know-Who's defeat!" The man beams and the fist, still hovering near the window on its incredibly elongated arm, gives Remus a thumbs-up. "It's a fine morning, come join us! I don't expect we'll be finished anytime soon!"

The words are still processing, and all Remus can do is blink again, feeling like an owl. "Defeat?" he echoes.

"You heard me! Happened last night down in England, if you can believe it. Haven't heard all the details myself, but if you come along to the Gargoyle you'll be sure to hear the whole story."

Remus stares for another second or two, then carefully shuts the window and sits down on his bed. The room is drafty, as are most of the places in this tiny hamlet, and gooseflesh rises on his skin. He rubs some warmth into his arms and hears the man's voice again. _You-Know-Who's defeat._ Looking out the window again, he can only see the sky, but in his narrow field of vision there are at least six owls swooping here and there. It must be true. He thought he'd be happy, ecstatic, but all he can do is sit here as the concept works its way through him.

There's a knock on the door, and Remus jumps. He moves to open it, realizes he's not wearing a shirt, and pauses to pull on something without holes before turning the knob.

The innkeeper, a tiny woman with flyaway grey hair, is standing in the shadow of the man behind her. "Good morning, Mr. Lupin," she quavers. "This fellow's here to speak to you, I hope it's not inconvenient. I did tell him to wait downstairs but—"

"But I insisted on seeing you immediately," growls the man. Upon closer inspection, Remus realizes that it's Moody, looking as usual as if he's been carved from wood. "There are a few things we need to discuss."

The innkeeper purses her lips. "I can send him away, Mr. Lupin, if you like." She glares up at Moody, apparently unaware that she is several feet shorter and more than a hundred pounds lighter, and a muggle.

"That won't be necessary," Remus says. "We have a lot to talk about."

"As you wish." The innkeeper trots down the rickety stairs. "Give a shout if you need anything," she calls over her shoulder.

Remus peeks behind him to make sure he hasn't left anything on the single wooden chair. He hasn't. "Come in," he says, standing aside to let Moody through. He sits on the edge of the bed and waits until Moody takes the chair. "Er," he begins, "I didn't find the werewolf yet, sorry. I didn't expect you to—that is, I thought there was a week left until the rendezvous." He rubs the side of his nose and tries to read Moody's expression for a clue. It's impossible. "I—I heard something," he says, "about Voldemort."

Moody nods. "Thought you might have." He rubs his scarred hands together. "Well, it's all true. He's gone, for the foreseeable future at least."

Remus waits for an explanation, but is met with silence. "How did it happen?" he ventures. "Who did it?" It's starting to sink in now, and he feels a tingle of excitement in his belly, sparking his heart into a faster rhythm. "Is it really over?"

"It is," Moony says, frowning. The words don't go with the expression.

"So? How? What happened?"

Moony looks at him from beneath a craggy brow. "Listen, Lupin. Voldemort, he—there was an attack." He stops, sighs, and frowns more heavily.

The excitement is already starting to turn cold. Remus is a bit hung up on the way Moody is stumbling over his words, as if _he's_ the awkward twenty-something and Remus is the Auror. The man's words come back to him: _Happened last night down in England, if you can believe it._ "An attack?" Moody nods slowly. "Where?"

"Godric's Hollow."

There is something squeezing his lungs. "Lily and James?" he gets out. "Harry?"

"Harry's all right," Moody assures him, "but his parents—the house was destroyed. They're—"

"—dead." Remus rushes to say it first so he won't have to hear it. He can't quite think about what it means, and somewhere in the back of his throat, he has the urge to yawn. It's still so early. Maybe he's not actually awake yet. "What about Harry?" he asks, grasping at the distraction. "Sirius is his godfather, he'll take care of him, right?" But no, he thinks, Sirius is—was—Secret-Keeper. If they're dead, it means—

Moody regards him with one dark eye. The magical blue one appears to be staring down through the floorboards.

"Alastor?" Remus can hardly breathe around whatever is yanking on his diaphragm. "Harry is with Sirius. Isn't he?"

"No." The word is like the crunch of gravel under a boot. Moody sighs again. "Black betrayed the Potters. And early this morning Peter Pettigrew tracked him down."

"Peter?" Remus croaks. Peter is small, Peter is meek, Peter can't put up a shield charm on the first try.

The weak sunlight throws Moody's face into sharp relief. "Black killed him, Lupin."

Remus stares.

"He'll be in Azkaban this time tomorrow."

Remus is falling, falling, falling. The grip on his respiratory system has tightened, and he clutches at the soft edge of the bed. Something has gone wrong in his ears—a roaring, rushing, pounding noise like the ocean. He's drowning.

"—here, Lupin! Dammit, look at me!"

Moody's voice is dim through the crashing, but the closeness makes him blink. Moody is out of his chair, one hand on Remus's shoulder. He presses a vial of something into Remus's hand. "Drink this." Remus does so automatically and coughs, but he doesn't feel any different. There is still no color in the world.

He registers something, a few minutes late. "Sirius was a spy." Moody will contradict him, tell him he's mad.

"He did a good job hiding it." That's not _right._ He has to be wrong. He's wearing one of Sirius's shirts, and he wouldn't wear something that belonged to a spy. "You can't blame yourself, Lupin."

From the way he's scrutinizing him, Remus realizes Moody must think he's about to collapse again. "I don't," he says. It's only half a lie. "I'm all right," he insists. "I'll just—" He waves a hand, indicating his open suitcase in the corner. "Pack up, you know. I'll be back in England tomorrow."

Moody gives him a look that says travel plans are not important. "Lupin—"

Remus looks up at him. He knows Moody, at least a little, and is aware in a distant sort of way that he's getting very unusual treatment. Moody is not the sort to hang about or look after people's feelings. This must mean that they have a good relationship, that Remus's suspicions have been right—that they are friends, somehow—but at the moment he doesn't want friends. He wants to curl up into a ball, alone, and sleep for a hundred years. "Thanks," he rasps. "Thanks for telling me, really. Can we talk more, er, later?" He summons the energy to grind out a few more words. "Tomorrow, maybe?"

After a long moment of silence, Moody nods. He goes reluctantly to the door and looks back to where Remus is still sitting, clinging to a bedpost for dear life. "Remus," he says, "I'm very sorry." Then he's gone.

Remus is frozen. When at last coherent thought surfaces, he remembers that Voldemort's gone. There are so many things they were waiting to do until after the war. He wonders absently which one they'll do first, and then the truth slaps him again even though he never forgot it: they will never do anything anymore.

It's like trying to swim in the middle of a storm as the realizations hit him. James. Lily. Peter. Sirius. His best friends, his world—gone. The waves crash over him, again and again. It's—he can hardly fathom it, can't even begin to—was it only three days ago that he had tea with Lily? A week since he talked to Peter? Knowing he'll never see them again, the days turn into years.

A long time later, Remus pries his fingers from the bedpost and levers himself to his feet. The sun is coming through the window at a higher angle now. He can see even more owls outside, and, he thinks, shooting stars? All of it is distant, shadowy, noticed in a removed sort of daze. He goes to his suitcase and starts piling in shirts, trousers, robes. There isn't much. He imagines there's even less at home, since most of it belonged to Sirius first. Another wave dashes against him, practically knocking him to the ground.

His vision is fracturing, but he snaps the suitcase shut and makes the bed anyways. There are a few dark, wet spots on the sheets—he wipes his eyes. Through the hall, down the stairs. He hands money and his key to the innkeeper and steps into the sunlight. The water closes over his head.


End file.
